A Flame that Never Dies
by ChloeHeidrich1228
Summary: Arlette Boulanger, an orphan, has been friends with Enjolras for as long as she cares to remember. According to Les Amis d'ABC, however, the relationship is much more than a casual friendship. In the few days before the barricade, will the two realize their feelings? Enjolras/OC
1. Chapter 1

In 1823, Arlette Boulanger became a 13-year-old orphan. Her parents' death left both her and her three-year-old brother displaced, forced to live on the streets without a home. At the time, it had seemed Arlette's brother was lucky; he was young enough to be taken away by the state, and was placed in an orphanage. However, as 1826 unfolded, it became clear that Arlette was, in fact, the luckier of the two orphaned children.

One bitter, blustery March morning, Arlette sat on the hard cobblestones, curled in a ball, her threadbare clothes proving nothing but a meager barrier from the early-morning frigidness. The rest of Poitiers had just started to awaken, but Arlette had been awake for hours, unable to sleep since the first cock crow; it was her birthday, after all, and despite her impoverished situation, she was anxious to see what the day held. As the sun slowly began to rise, the Poitieriens started to exit their homes. A few of the wealthier men got into carriages and sped off, the wooden wheels of the carriages splaying dirt and unmelted snow into the air, some of which landed on Arlette's petite frame. Standing, the small girl brushed the cold flakes from her clothes and began to walk toward la cathédrale, where she knew she could at least get a scrap of bread from the kindly sisters of the convent. Though she had grown accustomed to her new-found life, before her parents death, she had lived quite the opposite.

Jacques and Gabrielle Boulanger were two loving parents, who ran a small boulangerie in the heart of Poitiers. The store didn't bring in much money, but the family of four was always able to afford the finer things in life. The children always got a few sweets on le jour de Saint Nicolas, and even a few small, wooden toys. Their clothes were never tattered, their shoes always shined, and their hair always combed. They were never too cold, nor too warm, and always knew that they were loved. Jacques was known around town; the man was tall and skinny, with long, light hair and electric blue eyes. Gabrielle's appearance was the antithesis of her husband; she was short, plump, had hazel eyes, and her chocolate hair, which was always pulled back into a bun, reached just past her shoulders. Arlette's brother had taken his small, light frame and hair from their father, though his eye color was completely Gabrielle's. Arlette, on the other hand, had her father's slender build and eye color, while retaining her mother's dark hair. Both children had inherited their father's cheerful disposition.

Arlette shivered as she walked from la cathédrale, carrying the crust of bread Mother Superior had given her. The temperature seemed to drop with every step the girl took, and as she turned her head to the sky, a tiny white flake landed on her cheek. She sighed as yet another brushed her face. It used to be that she loved snow; now, without her family, it was just a reminder of her loss. Arlette's gaze fell to the ground, and she watched her feet as she walked to a tiny stone bench near the back of the church. She sat and stared blankly as the snow fell, slowly eating her gifted bread.

"My dear, why are you sitting out here in the cold?" an older voice questioned. Arlette turned her head toward the man, regarding him with critical eyes. He was in his thirties, but his longer black hair had a thick streak of gray running through it. His chin was scruffy with the beginnings of a dark beard. His nose was rather large, which balanced out his rather small mouth and small, almond-shaped eyes. He was dressed like a member of the bourgeois; his high-waisted pants were brown, his vest red, under which he wore a white collared shirt, and his long coat was chocolate-colored. "Mademoiselle, why are you eating here in the snow?" he repeated.

Her large, crystal eyes met his dark ones for a moment before she looked away. "I have nowhere else to go, Monsieur."

"Surely you have family?" He sat down on the bench beside Arlette.

"No, Monsieur. My parents, they are dead." She glanced at her shoes, awaiting the usual response: a sou or two, an apology, and then the stranger would be gone.

The dark-haired man did none of the usual. "You poor mademoiselle," he began. There was a long pause before he continued. "Would you like to warm yourself and have a decent meal? My apartment is but a few short steps from here, if you would like to follow me, that is."

Arlette stared at the older man. "Kind monsieur, I could not accept your offer."

"But why not, Child?"

"Monsieur offers me warmth and a meal, but I have nothing to pay him."

At this, he chuckled. "Dear Mademoiselle, I do not expect payment. You're cold. Providing you with what you need would be payment enough."

Arlette thought for a moment. "If Monsieur is sure he would not mind," she trailed off pensively.

"Of course I would not mind! Come, Mademoiselle. A roaring fire and a warm meal await you." Arlette stood, and before she took a step, the older man's coat was around her shoulders. At her protest, he smiled. "No, Mademoiselle. You are cold. Keep your protests for another time."

Arlette stared at him. "Thank you, Monsieur." After a moment, she spoke again. "If I may ask, what is Monsieur's name?"

"Edouard Girard," he answered kindly. "Et vous?"

She drew the cost closer to her and said: "Arlette Boulanger, Monsieur Girard."

* * *

Arlette rubbed her arm nervously, awaiting the response to her knock on the intricate wooden door. It was months after she had first met Monsieur Girard, and already, she had changed. Her long, dark hair was glossy, pulled back by a gold ribbon. She no longer wore the worn calico dress, her wardrobe was paid for by the generous Monsieur Girard, with whom she had been residing. The kind monsieur lived, as a matter of fact, just down the hallway from the door she stood in front of. She was about to turn from the door when she heard the clicking of a lock from the other side. The door opened, revealing a younger bourgeois man, around Arlette's age, with wavy auburn hair and eyes the color of cold sapphire. It was clear this young man had a strong dislike of something, his hard expression and icy stare conveyed his anger.

When he didn't speak, Arlette cleared her throat nervously. "Bonjour, Monsieur. I, uh, live with Monsieur Girard down the hall," she began, pointing to the door of the apartment she shared with her caretaker. The young man, however, was not interested, and stood, staring, at her. "And I was just wondering if you, or your parents, had a spare pen and bottle of ink I could borrow. My pen broke, and I seem to have run out of ink in the process."

He continued to stare at her for what seemed like minutes, his gaze cold and analytical. Finally, he stood aside. "Come in." He disappeared into the apartment as Arlette crossed the threshold, leaving the door open. The entryway was rather large; a few wooden chairs sat facing an old stone fireplace, blackened from the hard Poitiers winters. A small desk sat in the far corner, and it was this that the young man was rifling through. Arlette did not move from the doorway, but she watched him curiously. It took him mere minutes to find what he was looking for, and he returned, pen and ink in hand.

Arlette looked at the writing utensil as he handed it to her. Golden and ornate, it was clearly expensive. "Monsieur...?" she questioned tentatively, beginning to ask him if he had a different pen she could borrow. When he looked at her, icy eyes clouded in question, she decided against it. "I'll return it as soon as I'm finished."

After a second of what Arlette perceived as anger, he replied. "Don't worry about it. We have many pens and ink is easy to come by."

"Merci beaucoup, Monsieur." She walked out of the room nervously, back to Girard's apartment.

Girard had gone away for the day, to Limoges on business, but had left her with specific instructions: write to the orphanage in which her brother lived. The older bourgeois had promised her that he would get her brother back. With the gilded pen in hand, Arlette sat at the writing desk and dipped into the inkwell.

Fifteen minutes later, she put the pen down and wiped off the tip. Her letter completed, she allowed the ink to dry a bit before folding it and sealing and pressing it with crimson wax and the Girard family crest, placing it on the table for Monsieur Girard to deliver it when he returned. Arlette stood and stretched, looking at the list of things her caretaker had left for her to do in his absence.

_Errands_, Arlette thought, gathering her purse and a few francs and reading the list of things she had to do. _Pick up Monsieur Girard's clothes from the tailleur, buy a loaf of bread and confiture for dinner, a bottle of ink._

Girard returned that night, and the next day, he delivered the letter to the orphanage. When he returned, he shook his head.

Arlette stared at Monsieur Girard. "Pardon?"

"Your brother was adopted a few months ago. Madame Lafaite said she thought the man's name was Jondrette. I'm sorry, ma chérie."

Arlette continued to stare at Monsieur Girard in disbelief. Never had she imagined that once the opportunity arose, she would not be reunited with her brother. In her mind, it had been completely reasonable, that, after a year, her brother would not be adopted by some hopefully kind and loving family. However, now that she was faced with the very situation that had been impossible not three minutes ago, she saw the fallacy in her logic: her brother was pleasant, and he was strong, naturally, someone had wanted him.

"If Mademoiselle would like, I could try to locate Monsieur Jondrette," Girard suggested.

Arlette considered this. Girard was well connected. No doubt, he would be able to find this Jondrette and reunite her with her brother. But at what cost? With all luck, the Jondrette family was well off. It was quite possible that her brother was happy-happier than what he could be with her. Granted she had no idea of the situation he was in, but the possibility always existed that he had a better life. Could she tear him away from that?

"Non, merci. That isn't necessary, but I do appreciate the thought."

Girard nodded. "Very well. The offer is always there." He turned away and busied himself at his desk for a moment, before turning back to her. "Oh! Arlette, I almost forgot. I came across Monsieur Louvier in the stairs. You know him, don't you? He, his wife, and their son live just down the hall." Arlette nodded, remembering the piercing blue eyes of the youngest Louvier. "He invited us to dine with them tonight. I accepted. I hope you don't mind."

She shook her head. "No. Not at all."

Hours later, Edouard Girard and Arlette stood in front of the Louvier's door. Arlette played with the skirt of her alizarin and gold dress nervously. She had no idea why she was nervous, but she had an idea it had something to do with the boy's hauntingly cold blue orbs. Girard knocked, and, after a few seconds, the door opened, revealing a stout man in his early thirties. His hair was the color of fresh wheat, his eyes, the color of sand.

"Edouard!" he greeted ebulliently. "This must be the girl you saved from the gutter."

"Now, André, that's not exactly how I would-"

Monsieur Louvier cut off the end of Girard's sentence. "Come in, come in!" He stepped aside and allowed the two into the salon, where a blonde-haired woman sat beside her son. "Estelle, this is Monsieur Edouard Girard and his pauper daughter..." he trailed off, unsure of himself.

"Arlette Boulanger." She introduced herself quickly, before Girard could speak. The blue eyed boy's eyebrows flashed upward quickly, surprised by her quick tongue.

"Arlette, of course." He smiled widely. "Edouard, Mademoiselle... Boulanger, was it?" She nodded curtly. "This is my wife, Estelle, and our son, Enjolras."

Estelle grinned, standing. "Enchantée."

Enjolras stood, extending a hand to Girard. "Good evening, Monsieur." He nodded to Arlette.

"We can make small talk over dinner." Monsieur Louvier ushered them into the dining room. "Come on, let's eat!"

Girard and Arlette followed the Louviers into the next room, where a large, rectangular, oak table was set for five. Candles adorned the two ends of the table. In the center, a large dish of chicken steamed pleasantly. Monsieur Louvier took his place at the head of the table; Enjolras sat to his right, with Madame Louvier beside him. Arlette sat across from Enjolras, Girard to her right, across from Madame Louvier.

"You know, Edouard," Monsieur Louvier began after everyone was served. "It's strange. We've been neighbors and, honestly, I never saw you before you brought home your little gutter-girl."

"Father!" Enjolras reprimanded softly.

Monsieur Louvier continued, either not hearing or ignoring his son. "I must admit: when I heard you adopted this girl from poverty, I was a bit concerned. Poor people have no place in our society-or society in general. I wasn't sure how she would acclimate herself to a lifestyle so different than her own."

Enjolras stood up sharply, throwing his napkin onto the table.

"Enjolras!" his mother scolded pointedly.

"Forgive me, Mother," he mumbled through clenched teeth. "But I'm not as hungry as I thought I was. May I go outside?"

"Oh, go if you must. I wish you would stay, though, we have guests."

"They are more than welcome to join me," the blond-haired boy stated bitterly.

Arlette sat through the rest of dinner, unspeaking, listening to Monsieur Louvier speak, complaining about his job as a lawyer, the king, the poor, and seemingly everything else in the world. _It's no wonder his son is bitter_, she thought during dessert. _He seems a miserable man._

She endured his comments, however, so as not to seem rude; and when Madame Louvier told her where to find Enjolras and sent her off with a plate of chicken and a piece of cake, she practically jumped out of her chair at the opportunity to get out of the room.

Enjolras was exactly where his mother said he would be: Le Jardin des Plantes. It was there, among the flowers and trees, that the blue-eyed boy collected himself. He sat among the lilies and roses, looking very much like a brooding statue of Apollo-his blond hair and slender, yet muscular, build reminded Arlette a great deal of the Greek god of the sun.

"Enjolras?" Arlette began softly, so as not to surprise the young man. He didn't respond. "Your mother said I'd find you here." When no reply came, she continued. "She sent the rest of your dinner." He didn't move. "I'll just leave it here, then. Good night." She sat the plate of food next to him on the bench and turned away.

"I'm sorry for how my father acted," he said, turning his head to look at her over his shoulder.

Arlette shrugged. "It's fine. Honestly. He just suffers from the typical bourgeois opinion of poor people."

"It's not fine! He was out of line." Enjolras stood and walked to her. "He shouldn't have said those things."

"Monsieur Louvier, I-"

"Enjolras. Just Enjolras."

"Enjolras," she said pensively, allowing his name to linger on her lips for a moment before continuing. "I lived on the streets for almost three years. I've heard much worse. Your father was merely stating his opinion. In _my _opinion, everyone is entitled to his or her own thoughts, even if I don't personally agree with it."

Enjolras's eyes lit up. "You really believe that?"

She nodded sheepishly. "Monsieur Girard is a Bonapartist." She paused. "But, personally, I prefer a more... Greek approach to government."

"Democracy?" His tone was incredulous, but his sapphire orbs were alight with excitement that extended to his lips.

"Democracy," she repeated, returning his smile.

Enjolras sat back down on the bench, moving the plate so that Arlette could sit beside him. As he ate what his mother had sent along, the two talked.

"It's rare to find someone that speaks their mind so openly," Enjolras noted. "Especially a woman."

"Monsieur Girard says I come from a rare cast."

"Clearly. I believe that no matter what gender, a person should speak his mind."

Unsure of what to say, Arlette merely smiled. The silence settled around the two, making the situation awkward. Arlette was suddenly aware of how close they were sitting. How the fabric of his trousers brushed against her skirt as she shifted her weight to recross her ankles. How, when he took a bite of the chicken his mother had prepared, he elbowed her slightly in the ribs.

"If Girard is a Buonapartist, then how did you come to respect the free republic?" Enjolras questioned suddenly, accenting the 'u' in Bonaparte like the royalists of the state.

"What did Bonaparte do for the poor?" she retorted. "When you've spent time living off the charity of others, you tend to reject those who do nothing to help you survive."

"If you'll permit me to play the Devil's advocate?" Arlette motioned him to continue. "The Napoleonic Code helped the poor. It forbade privileges based on birthright."

"I'm not a man," she stated simply. "Therefore, I am lower in class than a three-year-old boy. The law says that I am incapable, therefore no one could help me, even if they tried."

Enjolras nodded, processing her words. "So you turned to democracy?"

"In America, they offer Poor Houses. In Ancient Greece, even the poor had their own homes, their own goats for milk and food. In France, the poor have the streets."

Again, silence enveloped them. Arlette did not look at Enjolras, but she could tell he was finished eating; he had stopped elbowing her. She sighed softly to herself, listening to the crickets singing in the garden. It wasn't too late, and the fireflies had just began their nightly rounds.

Enjolras broke the silence once more. "I thank you for bringing me this." He motioned to the plate. "We should probably head back. It's getting late." He waited for Arlette to stand with him before beginning to walk out of the garden.

* * *

Arlette shut the door to the apartment softly, hoping Girard was either not home or not paying attention. She had no such luck, however.

"Ma chérie, I was getting worried about you!" Girard greeted, smiling playfully at her. "How was your date with Monsieur Enjolras?"

"It was not a date!" Arlette protested, feeling her face grow warm. "We were discussing the political values of the press and the written word!"

He chortled. "I'm quite sure."

Arlette's face grew even hotter. "And then... I told him about Paris."

"Oh?"

It had been almost a year since they had met the opinionated Louvier family and their son, the godlike Enjolras. Since then, Arlette and Enjolras had grown exceedingly close friends. Madame Louvier confided in Girard that it was rare for Enjolras to be so close with someone, let alone a girl. The blond boy was, while not introversive, a bit of a loner, consuming himself with the study of politics. He had but few friends, and those he had were kept close to his heart.

"He took it rather well, considering... well, considering." Arlette plopped herself onto the settee beside Girard. "He was upset, though, that I waited this long to tell him."

"We leave in three days. Why _did_ you wait this long?"

_Because then it would be real,_ she thought silently. _And I wasn't ready for that._


	2. Chapter 2

"Good morning, ma chérie!" Monsieur Girard greeted, walking into the drawing room and crossing off a day on the calendar hanging on the wall by the desk. Arlette glanced up and vaguely registered the date: August 13, 1829. "Still reading those letters are you?"

"Why hasn't he written?" she grumbled, practically to herself.

Girard took the paper out of her hands. "Chérie, it's been two years! He's probably busy with his school work."

"He made time before!" she protested.

"Things change," he cooed soothingly. "Go take a walk, Chérie. Clear your mind."

"But-"

"Go. I'll begin your chores."

Minutes later, Arlette was sitting on a wooden bench outside Notre Dame de Paris. She had learned to enjoy the hustle and bustle of the Parisian streets, and now, she loved watching the inhabitants of the city go about their business. Every once in a while, she would see a newcomer-identifiable by the confused expression on their faces.

"Excusez-moi? Mademoiselle?" A voice pulled Arlette from her reverie. "Mademoiselle?"

"Oui?" Arlette mentally shook herself and looked at the stranger. He was tall, much taller than herself, and she could tell he was her age, but he seemed much younger. His blond hair was wavy, but his eyes were gem-like sapphire orbs. It was then Arlette realized who she was looking at. "Enjolras?"

His eyes widened. "Arlette?"

"Enjolras!" She sprang up, excited.

He took her hand and bowed, his lips brushing her knuckles. "I'm sorry I haven't written. I've been busy."

She smiled warmly, drawing her hand back. "Enjolras, not to be rude, but... why are you here? In Paris?"

"Well, that's what I was asking you. I go to university here, but... I seem to be lost." He smiled sheepishly.

Arlette chuckled. "Well, where do you need to be?"

"L'université de Paris, le bâtiment de droit."

She frowned. "You're on the complete opposite side of the city, you know that, right?"

Enjolras sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That explains why I couldn't find it."

"Look, what time do you have to be there?"

"Classes don't start until tomorrow. Luckily, I decided to find it today."

"Why don't I show you around? That way, no more mishaps."

After a moment's hesitation, he nodded. They began to walk down the Parisian streets, Arlette on Enjolras's left, her pointing out important landmarks and how to get to popular places, him making mental notes of everything she described. Finally, they came upon a small corner café near le Jardin du Luxembourg, in the middle of the city.

"The Café Musain. It's small, but the proprietors are kind."

Enjolras nodded, glancing in the window. "If you don't mind," he began suddenly. "I think I would like to go in. Care to join me?" He offered his elbow to her.

Arlette allowed him to lead her into the cozy café. As soon as they crossed the threshold, she dropped Enjolras's elbow and they wove their way around the tables to a small group of young men in the corner. Upon seeing the two, the four men stood, smiling widely.

"Enjolras!" A tall, blond man strode forward and grasped Enjolras's hand warmly. "I see you've found us." The man's eye fell on Arlette. "Who is your friend?"

"Combeferre, Bahorel, Courfeyrac, Prouvaire, this is Arlette Boulanger," Enjolras introduced. "Arlette, meet Combeferre," the blond nodded, "Bahorel," a brown-haired man to Combeferre's left smiled widely, "Courfeyrac," the curly haired man on the end of the group waved gently, "and Jean Prouvaire."

"A pleasure to meet you, milady," the one called Jean Prouvaire moved to greet her, grasping her shoulders and moving to kiss her on both cheeks.

"The pleasure is mine, I'm sure." Arlette cringed inwardly. She hated when people invaded her personal space for such trivial traditions as la bise.

"Enjolras, you came at a most opportune time!" Courfeyrac commented jovially, casually pulling Prouvaire back to his place at the table. "We were just discussing the upcoming term. Would you like to join us?"

Enjolras looked to Arlette. "If you don't mind?" Arlette motioned for him to sit. Courfeyrac pulled his chair out, allowing Arlette to sit beside Enjolras, and went to get another.

While Enjolras, Prouvaire, and Combeferre discussed the upcoming semester of school, Courfeyrac and Bahorel spoke to Arlette. "So, Mademoiselle Boulanger," Courfeyrac began, nursing his glass of wine. "as you may know, Enjolras is not exactly the most popular fellow."

Arlette laughed lightly. "That is an understatement."

"And he has but a few friends." She nodded, urging him to continue. "How, of all people, did you come to be courted by Enjolras?"

"Courted?" Arlette whispered, raising an eyebrow. "By Enjolras? That's preposterous!"

"Is it?" Bahorel questioned, brown eyes glinting.

"Completely! We're just _friends_. I haven't even seen him in two years!"

Bahorel chortled. "Well, I would have guessed differently. He's talked about you."

"Oh?"

"He's never mentioned you by name, of course, but he has definitely complimented your ideals."

"Which, for Enjolras, is a shock," Courfeyrac added. "As he respects few peoples ideologies. Especially women's."

"He told us you value democracy," continued Bahorel. "Which he regards as highly important in any companion of his."

"And you seem to have known him for quite a long time," finished Courfeyrac.

"Three years is not-"

"It's quite a feat. He's a bit unbearable." Both men laughed.

"One would assume that since you've put up with him this long..." Bahorel trailed off, allowing Courfeyrac to pick up the sentence.

"And you're very close to him..."

Bahorel began again. "And he _is_ of the opposite gender..."

"And he _does_ seem to like you..."

"And you _do_ seem to like him..."

Courfeyrac leaned in closer to her to finish their thought. "One could assume, with logical and ample proof, that you two are, in fact, a couple."

Arlette leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms defiantly. "While your evidence is well presented, I can assure you that we are not."

"You aren't what?" Enjolras questioned, finally hearing their conversation.

"Oh, these two believe that-"

"Democracy is the best and most beneficial form of government!" Courfeyrac interrupted.

Enjolras looked between them strangely. "Yes. You are correct." With a last look of confusion directed at Arlette, he turned back to Prouvaire and Combeferre.

"What was that for?" she scolded softly.

"He thinks nothing of relationships. If he discovered our speculations, he would have our heads!" Bahorel explained.

"I understand his sentiments," Arlette confided. "What is a relationship? Merely a socioeconomic prison that confines the woman."

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow. "You are quite the radical thinker, Mademoiselle Boulanger."

"I like to think so, yes."

"It's a wonder you haven't been killed."

* * *

"Arlette, I told you: I don't want my pen back. Please. It's been years! I clearly have no need for it!" Enjolras argued, brandishing a pen to prove he had no use for the gilded one.

"But I feel badly that-"

"No!" He tapped her pen with his own. "Keep the pen."

"I don't want the pen." She mimicked his action, tapping her gilded pen to his less ornate one. "So take it back."

"I have no use for it." Tap.

"Keep it as a spare, then." Tap.

"How many times do I have to tell you: I have many pens." Tap. Tap.

"Well, I don't want it. What am I supposed to do with it now that I have no need for it?" Tap. Tap.

They continued for a few minutes, smacking each other's pens in a mock sword-fight. Finally, Enjolras's pen flew out of his hand.

"Need a pen now?" Arlette questioned smugly.

Enjolras rolled his eyes, fighting to hide a smile, and stood to retrieve his pen. "Petty arguments are _not_ why I came here, believe it or not."

"Oh? Then why are you here?" Enjolras looked at her, slightly abashed. "Not that you aren't welcome."

"Courfeyrac invited a girl over last night."

Arlette laughed. "Oh."

"Needless to say, I got no work done, and I was unable to sleep." He glared. "Forced to listen to their incessant groaning and moaning. I wouldn't wish it on the king!" Arlette couldn't help but chuckle. Above all things, Enjolras hated the king. If he wouldn't wish something on the monarch, it had to be terrible.

"Bad?"

"Horrible." He pulled two books from the messenger bag he brought with him. "I need sanctuary. And a place to study." He waved the books toward the settee. "May I?"

She motioned for him to sit beside her. He obliged, handing her one of the books. "It's Rousseau. _Émile_. I figured you would like it."

She examined the spine of the book. It was old and leather bound with gilded trim and letters. "What is yours?" She strained to see the spine of his own book.

"The same. I borrowed two copies."

Arlette nodded, already engrossed in the book. _Nous naissons faibles, nous avons besoin de force; nous naissons dépourvus de tout, nous avons besoin d'assistance; nous naissons stupides, nous avons besoin de jugement. Tout ce que nous n'avons pas à notre naissance et dont nous avons besoin étant grands, nous est donné par l'éducation. __Cette éducation..._

"Arlette?"

She held up a finger, forcing him to wait until she finished the sentence. _Cette éducation nous vient de la nature, ou des hommes ou des choses. _"Yes?"

"I have a question."

"I assumed so, yes. That's why you interrupted me."

"It's a political question."

Arlette rolled her eyes. Enjolras used to come to her frequently with his political questions. _Would a democratic system similar to America's really benefit France?_ Yes, if the inalienable rights of men were kept intact and human rights were respected. _Why was Caesar such a good ruler?_ Was Caesar a good ruler? _Do you think public education for all would work in France? _Everyone should have some knowledge of something. "What is it this time?"

Enjolras paused, leafing through his book pensively. "It's a question of romantic relationships. More specifically, sexual relationships."

She was shocked. "This is a political question?"

"Well, yes. Everything is political. Like everything else, the unity of a man and woman has a socioeconomic base. A relationship must be founded on mutual beliefs. A common attitude and philosophy towards society. A mutual opinion about the act of-"

"And affection?" she interrupted, testing the waters.

"Well, yes. Of course. That is also necessary." He nodded once, as if to himself. "Such a relationship can have positive social values. When two people face the world with unity and solidarity-"

"And affection," she insisted.

"Yes, that is an important element!" He pinched the bridge of his nose briefly. "At any rate, I... I personally am unsure of how I feel about such a relationship. Clearly it has its benefits. Courfeyrac and Prouvaire go on and on about the benefits of... such an act... but, I don't know."

"Enjolras, what are you asking me?"

"What are your opinions on sexual relationships?"

She stared blankly at the blond in front of her. His blue eyes reflected the sort of innocent curiosity he felt. His statuesque face, though nearly twenty, looked young and cherubic. She closed her eyes, thinking about the situation he had presented.

"You.. don't have to answer if you don't want to. I was just... curious." She remained silent, pensive, like he had done to her so many times.

Finally, she spoke. "I believe... that if man and a woman were... intimate... and engaged in the socioeconomic relationship you presented, then they need to truly and deeply care for each other."

"So you are for it?"

"If the man and woman are enchanted by each other-if they completely adore each other-" She paused to consider her answer. "Yes. Yes, if they do, I'm in favor of it."

"Even if it is outside of marriage?"

"If the conditions are met...yes." Enjolras nodded, opening his book once again.

* * *

Arlette stared at the words on the page, fighting fatigue. She had borrowed the book with the promise to return it the next morning, but Machiavelli's _The Prince_, though not long, was not something a normal person read in a single night. She rubbed her eyes and glanced out the window. The sky was just beginning to turn pink over the Paris skyline. People were just starting to emerge from their homes, going about their business, getting ready for the new day.

A sharp knock at the door caused Arlette to jump to her feet, stretching as she did so. She attempted to smooth her unruly curly hair before walking to the door. She gently opening the door so as not to wake Girard and recognized the messy mop of curly, dark hair that was Courfeyrac.

"What do you want, Fey?" she questioned, walking back to the settee, leaving Courfeyrac to let himself in and shut the door.

"Enjolras sent me to make sure you were awake. Big day today."

"Yeah, big day." Arlette rubbed her eyes. "Too bad he gave me Machiavelli last night."

"You were awake all night reading again, weren't you?" She waved her hand. "You shouldn't do that, Arles! You need your sleep." She rolled her eyes. "Oh, it doesn't matter. Come, get dressed."

For the first time, Arlette noticed the bag in his hand. "You brought them?"

He looked affronted. "Of course I brought them."

Minutes later, Arlette stood in the salon, under scrutiny. "For the most part, it looks good."

"For the most part?" She glanced at her reflection in the mirror. A feminine looking man stared back at her. High-waisted grey corded pants, a white high-collared shirt, blue-grey lapelled vest, and a red overcoat hid her petite frame, her curly chocolate hair tucked up under a blue-grey eight-panel cap. Arlette didn't even recognize herself in the person staring back at her. Sure, she looked a bit feminine, but so did Enjolras.

"You're missing something." Courfeyrac stroked his chin in thought. "I know exactly what it is!"

"What?" She stood watching as he dug through the pockets of his own wine-red coat. "Fey, what?"

"Just need to wear this." He pinned a red, white, and blue flower-shaped cockade similar to his own to the lapel of her coat. "There," he said, standing back to admire his work.

"Presentable?"

He winced, but nodded. "As long as you don't talk more than necessary, yes."


	3. Chapter 3

The Café Musain was clearly not made to hold so many people. Every one of Enjolras's friends that had attended the rally were crowded into the small front room of the establishment. Most were still excited from Enjolras's heartfelt speech, and all were chattering in the loudest voice possible.

"Yet another terrific rally, Enjolras," Lesgles commented, raising his glass of Brandy, toasting the young revolutionary.

Joly nodded. "Definitely. I believe you made some people think-"

He was cut off by Enjolras. "Think? I do not wish to make people think! I want to make them act! To rise up against the king! Just making them think is like telling Da Vinci creating plans for hundreds of fantastic inventions and never creating them!"

"Which, coincidentally, is what actually happened," Arlette stated, smiling at the blond. He rolled his eyes in frustration. "Enjolras, you're trying to change years of deep-seeded tradition. You can't expect that to change overnight. The people will think. Soon enough will they arise to meet your expectations."

"I'll drink to that!" Grantaire shouted, already inebriated.

"You would." Arlette grabbed the bottle from his hand before it could reach his lips.

Suddenly, an enraged shriek erupted over the din of excited students, quieting them. "Who is in charge here?" The owner of the café, clearly unaccustomed to such a crowd in his business, emerged, his face red with anger.

"Enjolras is!" someone answered.

"Yes, Enjolras is in charge!" another affirmed.

Enjolras looked to Arlette, confusion in his eyes. "I'm in charge?" he whispered.

"Your rally, your disciples," she answered, shrugging.

By then, the proprietor was at their table. He was terribly short—the top of his head barely came to Enjolras's shoulder. "You are in charge?" The blond nodded slowly. "Please, I can accommodate most of your friends, but not all of them. I need to allow more customers into my shop. If you would kindly dismiss some…" He trailed off, not wanting to anger Enjolras, who was not only taller, but more muscular.

Enjolras knitted his eyebrows. "I don't know if I-"

The rest of his sentence was drowned out by a sharp whistle. The blue-eyed Apollo glanced to Arlette, who, still in Courfeyrac's clothes, was standing on a chair. "Excusez-moi, this nice gentleman would like us to vacate so that he may have more customers that are less rowdy. If you could please exit the premises in an orderly fashion…" She waved her hand toward the door; the students began to exit, talking quietly amongst themselves.

Enjolras smiled, offering her a hand and helping her off the chair. "You're very obnoxious," he observed.

"You've known me for how long?"

The café owner smiled. "Good. Good. If you will follow me, please, I can show you and your friends to an area you may frequent as much as you would like." They obliged, and were led through the café to a long hallway that opened up to a large back room. "I used to use this room for storage, but I believe you have more use for it than I do. Make yourselves at home; this room will be yours as long as you need it." He exited, mumbling something that sounded like 'Vive la Republique.'

Joly whistled, turning slowly in a circle, observing the room. Grantaire, drunk as he was, had collapsed into a chair in the corner by a window overlooking the rue des Grés. Bousset and Bahorel were examining the street view from the same window. Combeferre was studying the door to the outside world expectantly, as if it were a new idea. Courfeyrac and Enjolras had already sat at a table to discuss the use of this new and mysterious headquarters. Arlette approached them, grinning.

"What, ma chérie, is causing such a smile?" Courfeyrac questioned, offering her his seat.

"Why, it's like a secret clubhouse," she exclaimed happily. "We're a secret club."

The brown-haired boy chuckled at her. "So it is."

"Our club is not so secretive," Enjolras pointed out.

"We are not a club yet!" Arlette protested. "We need a name first!"

"You are a child," he reprimanded. His sapphire eyes smiled, however, and he was not angry with her.

Bahorel and Courfeyrac exchanged meaningful glances.

"Oh, forgive me," she replied sarcastically. "I was only deprived of my childhood by poverty."

"And what should we name this little club of ours?" Enjolras skillfully diverted her attention.

"You're the brilliant leader, mon ami."

He thought for a moment, sitting still as a statue, staring out the window. "Les Amis," he stated finally. "Les Amis de l'Abaissé."

"The Friends of the Lowered?"

"Brilliant!" Courfeyrac commended.

Weeks later Arlette walked through the secret door into the back room of what she and her friends were now calling the ABC Café. Enjolras was there, as always, discussing the next protest with Courfeyrac and Bousset. All three men looked up when she entered.

Bousset stood, smiling. "I love that dress, chérie. What color is that? Lilac?"

Arlette ignored him, walking instead to Enjolras. "What is the matter?" the blond questioned, raising an eyebrow when she smirked at him.

"I got you something." She held out a rolled up, poster-sized piece of paper.

He took it gently and unfolded it, revealing a map of the Parisian streets. "Where did you get this?"

"A cartographer down the rue de la harpe who believes in our cause."

Enjolras nodded approvingly, handing the map to Bousset. "Hang this on the wall."

"So, where are we protesting this week?" she questioned her god-like friend, turning to pull a wooden chair to the table they were sitting at.

"I was thinking either outside the school or General Lamarque's chateau. Both would provide ample crowd. What are your opinions?"

She ran a hand through her curly chocolate hair. "It depends on the demographic you want to speak to. You've been talking to the students thus far. Which is good if you want to build your revolutionary army. However, if you really want to dig yourself deeper, speaking to the poor in front of the General's chateau would not only provide you with your army, but would also allow you to test the waters. See how well this revolution of ours does in the real world."

Courfeyrac beamed. "I now understand why you keep her around."

She rolled her eyes. "Why do I keep _you_ around, Fey?"

In the distance, the bells of Notre Dame de Paris lit up the air, calling out the time: two o'clock. A few of the boys in the café stood and gathered their things, Enjolras included.

"What class do you have?" Arlette questioned her best friend.

"Philosophy." He sighed. "Don't worry, I'll bring you another book."

"Do you have time to go to Girard's and grab the last one?" she questioned innocently.

He sighed again, this time exaggeratedly. "I suppose. Why didn't you bring it?"

"I brought you a map. You want _two_ gifts in one day?"

"Touché," he mumbled, patting her head. "I'll come by later tonight."

When Enjolras left, Bahorel joined their table. "He'll come by later tonight?" he questioned incredulously to Courfeyrac. "Our little Enjolras finally has gotten himself a girlfriend."

"I must say that I'm impressed. I never knew he was interested in anything other than Patria and this revolution, let alone a girl." Courfeyrac reclined in his chair, content.

Arlette rolled her eyes. "This again? How many times do I have to tell you two: I'm not his girlfriend, nor will I ever be! He has no interest in me. He brings me books."

"You say he has no interest in you, yet you fail to deny your interest in him," Courfeyrac pointed out.

"I believe it was implied by the 'nor will I ever be.' I have no feelings for him other than friendship and respect," she defended, moving a strand of hair out of her eyes.

"Why do I not believe her?" Bahorel whispered.

"There is **nothin g**between Enjolras and me. Nothing."

Both men shrugged. "If you insist."

* * *

"_Le rouge et le noir_," Enjolras said, answering her unspoken question and handing her a book. "I've never heard of it, which doesn't mean it isn't good. It was apparently published last year, which is interesting."

"Last year? This should definitely prove to be a good resource for you, then," Arlette pointed out, motioning to the salon. "Would you like some tea? I just put a pot on."

"I'd love some, actually." Arlette scurried off into the kitchen to prepare another cup. Enjolras deposited his bag onto the floor beside the settee before following her.

"How was philosophy?" she questioned him, noticing his exasperated look.

"Professeur Aguillard is a bore. He tries to make things interesting, but it doesn't help. He's a great teacher, but his class is just so…" He groaned.

"But you love philosophy."

"And I love the class. I just wish it would be more intellectually stimulating." She nodded, pouring boiling water into two delicate tea cups. "All we do is read and discuss. We don't actually talk about modern philosophy. Which is why I'm so shocked by this book. It's _extremely_ modern."

"I'm surprised le directeur allows you to read it." She handed him a cup and led him back to the salon. "I'm glad you're allowed to read it, though."

He grinned. "Because it means that you can read it, too."

"Precisely. Do your professeurs look at you strangely when you take two books?"

Shaking his head, he replied. "They used to. Now they just assume I need two and give me both when handing them out."

She nodded, and, sensing a lull in their conversation, sat her cup down and opened _Le rouge et le noir_.

_La petite ville de Verrières peut passer pour l'une des plus jolies de la Franche-Comté. Ses maisons blanches avec leurs toits pointus de tuiles rouges s'étendent sur la pente d'une colline, dont des touffes de vigoureux châtaigniers marquent les moindres sinuosités. Le Doubs coule à quelques centaines de pieds au-dessous de ses fortifications bâties jadis par les Espagnols, et maintenant ruinées._

_Verrières est abritée du côté du nord par une haute montagne, c'est une des branches du Jura. Les cimes brisées du Verra se couvrent de neige dès les premiers froids d'octobre. Un torrent, qui se précipite de la montagne, traverse Verrières avant de se jeter dans le Doubs et donne le mouvement à un grand nombre de scies à bois; c'est une industrie fort simple et qui procure un certain bien-être à la majeure partie des habitants plus paysans que bourgeois. Ce ne sont pas cependant les scies à bois qui ont enrichi cette petite ville. C'est à la fabrique des toiles peintes, dites de Mulhouse, que l'on doit l'aisance générale qui, depuis la chute de Napoléon a fait rebâtir les façades de presque toutes les maisons de Verrières._

Like most of the philosophy books Enjolras brought her, this one read as a story, not as a lecture, which, in Arlette's opinion, taught better than a lecture. The Greeks had used stories as lessons with the myths, which were some of the world's most famous stories. The brothers Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm popularized many fairytales with ulterior morals. Aesop's fables were morally sound, educational stories. _Le rouge et le noir_ followed in the footsteps of Descartes, Hobbes, and Locke.

As if on a timer, Enjolras interrupted her thoughts. "Arlette, may I ask you a question?"

"Another political question?" she retorted, slightly annoyed.

"No. This time, a personal question." She said nothing, allowing him to continue. "Have you ever been courted?"

"Enjolras, where are these questions coming from? First the so-called 'political question' about sexual relationships, now you ask me if I've been courted?" He looked up at her, innocence pouring out through his sapphire orbs, and she couldn't help but answer. "Once. For a very short time."

"Oh? Did you kiss him?"

"What? I-" She stopped short, closing her eyes briefly and sighing. "Yes. Once."

"Courfeyrac and Bahorel say that-"

"Enjolras, if you ask me, I don't think you should listen to what Courfeyrac and Bahorel say about relationships and what is good and what is fun and what isn't. It's beginning to change you. Read your Descartes and Rousseau and leave the relationship things to the other men. And if you should choose to experiment with relationships, let it be of your own accord. Don't go by what Fey and the others tell you. Each relationship is different."

He sipped his tea pensively, staring at the book in her hand. Arlette knew she saw the wheels turning in his brain, but for the life of her, she had no idea what he was thinking.


	4. Chapter 4

"Monsieur, what's wrong?" Arlette questioned, running into Girard's room. She had heard him retching from the kitchen, something that occurred all too often. "Monsieur, what's…?"

"Water, ma chérie. Did you bring me water?"

"Of course." She handed him the glass she had brought and helped him lean back into bed. "Monsieur, what is the matter? This is the fourth time this week. And it's only Tuesday!"

Girard paused for a moment, not looking at her as he sipped from the cup. Finally, he spoke. "Ma chérie, I am sick. You have been very busy, and I did not want to trouble you."

It was true: the months had flown by as Enjolras's speeches grew more frequent. What had once occurred once every few weeks was now occurring every-other day in an attempt to prepare the people for what was to come: a revolution to rival that of the July Rebellion. 1831 soon gave way to 1832; winter soon passed; spring was almost summer. Arlette, now twenty-one, had been kept quite busy aiding Enjolras and Courfeyrac and their rebellious speeches. Paris was up in arms; crisis had arisen in France with the outbreak of cholera.

"Monsieur, you should have told me. I could have sent for the médecin. I could have spent less time out-"

"No, no. I have been seeing a doctor, and you have every right to be out fighting for you believe in with that handsome young friend of yours." Arlette smiled and looked away. "Ma chérie, there is nothing that you could do for me, whether you were here or not. God has a time for everyone to join him; I suppose that it is mine."

"Monsieur, you have been so kind, so loving. How can I go on without you here?"

He chuckled. "I'm not dead yet, ma chérie." He patted her cheek. "And I think you've got a great well of support in that boy that's always here. He cares about you. Let him."

"Enjolras? No, he-"

"Ma chérie, go to him. In a few hours, I feel I will be gone. I don't want you to be alone. Go to him. Bring him here if you must. Just don't be alone."

She nodded. "I will. In a few minutes."

"No, chérie. Now. Before it is too late." He squeezed her hand. "Please."

Arlette nodded and left the house in a daze. She didn't even register when her feet hit the street, she was on autopilot, walking mechanically to the Café Musain. She entered through the secret back door into the room that had become the headquarters of Les Amis de l'ABC.

"Enjolras?" she questioned the first man she came to: Combeferre.

"Arlette, he's in class right now. You should know that. What's wrong with you?" he attempted to pull a chair for her.

"Class. Right. Philosophy?" Combeferre nodded. "What… what time is it? What time does he usually come back here?"

"He should be back in a few minutes. Arlette, what's wrong?" She shook her head. "He'll be back soon," he repeated. "You can wait for him here." He grabbed a bottle from a sleeping Grantaire at the next table. "Would you like a drink?" Again, she shook her head. "Suit yourself. Would you like a seat?"

"I'm fine, Combeferre!" she spat at the blond.

It was then that Enjolras stepped through the door. "Arlette? You're never here at this time. What's the matter?"

"Come," she stated simply, grabbing him by the sleeve and leading him back out of the café.

"Where are we going?" he questioned when they were a good distance from the Café Musain. "Arlette, what's the matter? You haven't said a word since we left."

"I can't, Enjolras. Not here. Not now."

Minutes later, they were at Girard's bedside. His condition had worsened quicker than expected; he was pale, his skin stretched tight on his face. He looked sickly.

"Arlette, he has cholera. Joly was at the café. Why didn't you bring him?"

Girard smiled weakly. "I told her to bring only you. There's nothing your friend can do for me."

"So you've given up?" Enjolras questioned stonily.

"I'm being realistic." He turned to Arlette. "Ma chérie, would you go get me a drink?" Arlette nodded and left. "I asked her to bring only you. She needs you."

"Me?" Enjolras was shocked. "Monsieur, I believe you are gravely mistaken. Arlette needs no one. She is a great, modern woman."

"Even Cleopatra had men in her life. First her father, then her brothers, then Caesar, and Mark Antony." Girard smiled. "She may be great, but she will need someone to protect her."

"Trust me, Monsieur, she needs no protecting. Arlette can defend herself."

"Physically, perhaps, but mentally?" Enjolras remained silent. "Please, promise me that you will take care of her."

"I… you really have given up?"

"I have not given up. More, given in."

"To what?"

"God's will. He wills me to leave her." Girard glanced to the doorway. "He wills me to leave her to you. She cares about you, and I believe that you care for her."

"She is one of my best friends, Monsieur."

Girard looked at him skeptically, his eyebrow moving up slightly over his taught forehead. "Hm."

"Your water," Arlette said, reentering the room and presenting the cup.

"Merci, ma chérie." He took a drink before sitting the cup down on the bedside table. "You know, ma chérie, I-" He stopped short, his hand flew to his forehead."

"Monsieur!" Arlette was at his side in an instant.

"Headache, ma chérie. Nothing to…" He winced. "I… I feel I should like to sleep now. Would you care to leave me?"

"But, Monsieur,-"

Enjolras's hand was on her shoulder. "Let him rest, Arlette. He needs it."

Reluctantly, she allowed him to lead her away, to the salon. "He is dying, Enjolras." He pressed on her shoulder, forcing her to sit.

"I know."

"What am I going to do?"

"You are strong. You will survive. You have Les Amis. You have Courfeyrac." He took her hand gently. "And you have me. We'll get through this together."

Arlette felt a tear fall from her cheek. She hadn't even realized she was crying. "Enjolras…"

He silenced her by pulling her to his chest. Sitting there, with Enjolras's arms around her, his chin on top of her head, she couldn't help but feel that everything _was _going to be fine. The moment abruptly ended, however, when a painful scream from Girard's chamber caused Arlette to jump to her feet.

She was at his side in a moment. "Monsieur," she cooed. "Monseiur, what's wrong?" He was shaking violently. "Enjolras, what's wrong with him?"

The blond shook his head, sapphire orbs filled with grief. "I think it's time."

Slowly, Girard's convulsions stopped. His eyes were opened, but he remained unconscious. A small sighish moan escaped from Girard's pale lips. Enjolras reached down, placing two fingers under his jaw before gently closing Girard's eyelids.

Arlette watched Enjolras lift the blanket over Girard's body in silence, tears rolling down her cheeks. The blond's lips moved, but she heard nothing, and when he turned to her, she collapsed in his arms.

Enjolras led her down the stairs to the salon, where he made sure she was seated on the settee before leaving to fetch the doctor. When he returned, Arlette was in the same spot as when he left. He sat beside her, pulling her to him once again. Unsure of what to say, he remained silent, allowing her to cry into his chest.

Slowly, her tears faded, but Arlette clung to Enjolras as if he were her own life force. Absentmindedly, she noticed that his red jacket smelled vaguely of citrus and spirits. When she let go and sat straight, she noticed Enjolras's confusion.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, wiping her eyes. "Your jacket is all wet now."

He shook his head. "I don't care about that. Are you okay?"

"I don't know."

A small smile graced the sapphire-eyed Apollo's lips. She felt his finger under her chin, and before she knew it, her lips were gliding over his own. Nervously, his tongue rubbed against her bottom lip, which was captured between both of his. His hand moved from under her chin to cupping her face gently. Arlette opened her eyes slightly, and smiled into the kiss when she saw his eyes fully closed and face relaxed in pleasure. Seconds later, they broke apart, and he rested his forehead on her own, their noses brushing against each other lightly.

"What was that?" she questioned softly, her eyes scanning his own. His azure orbs were muddled with confusion, excitement, worry, and, most of all, shame.

"I'm sorry." He pulled away completely, standing. "You told me to do things like this of my own accord. It seems I have terrible timing."

"No… I don't want you to think…" She paused, attempting to resist the urge to pull him to her. "Don't be sorry," she said finally. "Your timing may be terrible, but…" Her eyes widened. "Courfeyrac can never know about this."

"What?"

"He's been bothering me since I met him. He must never know this happened. Promise me you won't tell him."

"I don't see why-"

"Promise!"

He nodded slowly. It was clear he was confused. "Fine, I promise."

Enjolras kept his promise. No one in Les Amis knew what happened after Girard died. The activity of the group increased as they gained a new member in their ranks: an ex-bourgeois man named Marius Pontmercy. The members of Les Amis were on high alert, looking for some sign that would send the people into disarray and cause the revolution they desired to aid in. On June 2, that sign came.

Enjolras and Marius stood atop an overturned cart just outside General Lamarque's chateau in the center of the poorest section of Paris—Saint Michel. Arlette stood in the crowd, dressed yet again in Courfeyrac's clothes, watching the protest and passing out pamphlets to the people.

"Where are the leaders of this land? Where are the swine who run this show?" Enjolras shouted. Cries of agreement erupted from the people.

Marius picked up where Enjolras left off. "Only one man—General Lamarque—speaks for the people here below."

Unexpectedly, Courfeyrac appeared at Enjolras's side. He whispered something in the blond's ear before hopping down and disappearing back into the crowd. Enjolras addressed the group. "Lamarque is ill and fading fast. He won't last the week out, so they say."

Marius took this information and ran with it. "Will all the anger in the land, how long until the judgment day?"

"Before we cut the fat ones down to size?"

"Before the barricades arise?" each member of Les Amis shouted in unison.

Shouts of 'Vive la France!' echoed throughout the streets as Marius and Enjolras jumped down from the cart. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw three police montées approaching the crowd quickly, their horses' hooves pounding against the cobblestones. Arlette moved toward the two men, pushing her way through the crowd.

"We've got to go!" she yelled to them when she was close enough, pointing at the rapidly approaching police.

Enjolras nodded, but didn't move. "We've a right to be here!" he shouted at the police montées that were now at the edge of the crowd.

Slowly, the police pushed the group back, breaking it up slightly as they moved forward. "Enjolras, let's go!" Arlette grabbed his wrist and pulled him away from the center of the group.

Once they were well away from Lamarque's chateau, she turned to him. "That was some piece of news."

"Trust me," he responded, blue eyes flashing with excitement. "I'm just as shocked as you are."

"Is he going to die, do you think?"

The blond shrugged. "I don't know. If he does, we're going to have a revolution on our hands." Arlette said nothing. "What?"

"Enjolras, I know it's what you've been wanting. To rid France of her king and create a republic from the ashes. But… I don't know. Don't you think there's another way?"

"Arlette, progress cannot be made in this country without the people in revolt," he pointed out.

"Well, yes, I suppose. But…"

"But?"

"Oh, it's nothing. You're right. We need this revolution." She sighed. "So, Monsieur Student Revolutionary, what do we do now?"

"Well, we have a few hours before the meeting at the café. What would you like to do?"

"Well, I promised Jehan I would walk through the Tuileries with him. Care to join us?"

"They're all the way across the city!" he protested.

"That's what Jehan wants to do. You don't have to come, if you don't want to."

"No, it's just…" he rolled his eyes. "Where are you meeting him?"

"The café."

"It's a half-hour walk to get there from the café!" Enjorlas exclaimed.

"You don't have to come."

"Why does Jehan want to go to the Tuileries, anyway? Luxembourg is right beside the café."

"He said something about sketching." Enjolras rolled his eyes. "His art is important to him."

* * *

"That's such a pretty flower!" Jehan exclaimed, plopping himself on the ground in front of a bush with his sketchbook. "I'm going to be here a while, if you two want to go take a walk or something."

For what seemed like the hundredth time since they entered le jardin, Enjolras rolled his eyes. "You didn't have to come," Arlette said through clenched teeth, waving at Jehan as they walked away.

"You would have been bored," he replied softly.

"I could have brought a book. I could have talked with Jehan!"

"You would have been bored, sitting there while he drew his flowers."

"You frustrate me." She watched his blue orbs circle around again and she groaned. "You are making this miserable."

"We shouldn't be having fun! Jehan and I should be at the Café Musain with the rest of Les Amis preparing for the revolution!"

Arlette glanced behind them. Jehan was just visible, still sitting with his flower, observing it from a different angle. "Enjolras, he's young, _you're_ young. Not everything needs to be about this revolution. I want to see a change as much as you do, but my life does not revolve around this idea of a free republic."

"He's old enough."

"He's _eighteen_."

"When I was eighteen-"

"Not everyone is as obsessed with this as you are. He's going along with it because we're his friends. Why are you so irritable?"

The blond cast his glance at the palace. "The king lives there."

She nodded. "You really hate him, don't you?" Enjolras turned to her, his blue eyes aflame. "Of course you do. Maybe we should get back to Jehan?"

Enjolras turned to look at their young friend. "He'll be there for a while. There's a bookstore nearby. Would you care to go peruse their selections of philosophers?"

"They have Rousseau books, don't they?"

Enjolras smiled gaily. "If he wrote it, they have it in stock."

"Oh, I suppose we can go. We must tell Jehan, though."

When they returned to the gardens an hour later, Jehan was on a bench close to the entrance. "Find anything good?" the blond questioned, standing and tucking his notebook under his arm.

Enjolras pulled a leather-bound book out of the paper bag he was carrying. "_Julie_," he stated triumphantly.

"And you?"

"The same," Arlette admitted. "He insisted on buying my copy as well." Jehan smiled mysteriously. "What about you? How did your flower turn out?"

"Oh, quite well!" Jehan flipped to a page in his notebook.

"The shading is magnificent. It's very realistic."

"Thank you, chérie." Jehan beamed. "If you would like, I will draw you something someday."

"That would be lovely. Come. We should be getting back. We have preparations to make before the meeting tonight."

Finally, Enjolras perked up. "Arlette, do you know if Monsieur Ducreaux is bringing les mousquets, or do we need to go get them?"

"I believe he said he was bringing them, as long as we clean them."

"Forget les mousquets! Is Madame Ducreaux bringing that quiche again?" Jehan questioned animatedly. Enjolras rolled his eyes, but chuckled.

* * *

"The time is near!" Enjolras called to the room full of student revolutionaries. Arlette was by his side, helping Courfeyrac to fold a red flag sewn by one of the mothers. The news of General Lamarque's illness seemed to have sparked a flame in Enjolras; he had spent the entire day preparing for the speech. "So near, it's stirring the blood in their veins." He rushed forward to grab one of Ducreaux's muskets from one of the drunken students. "But, yet, beware. Don't let the wine go to your brains!" He glared directly at Grantaire, who lifted a bottle to his lips gaily. "We need a sign to rally the people, to call them to arms, to bring them in line!"

Marius rushed in at that moment, looking very flustered. Joly and Grantaire noticed, and approached him. "Marius, what's wrong today? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

"Have some wine!" Grantaire offered. "And say what's going on!"

"A ghost, you say? A ghost? Maybe. She was just like a ghost to me. One minute there, then she was gone." Marius explained, allowing himself to be led to a table.

Enjolras glanced at Arlette before rolling his eyes and moving to study the map of Paris on the wall.

"I am agog, I am aghast!" Grantaire began. "Is Marius in love at last? I've never heard him 'ooh' and 'aah'." The drunk stood and addressed Enjolras. "You talk of battles to be won, yet here he comes like Don Juan. It is better than an opera!"

Enjolras clenched his jaw angrily and started toward them. "Enjolras, don't!"

"It time for us all to decide who we are." The blond sat beside Marius. "Do we fight for the right to a night at the opera now? Have you asked of yourself, what's the price you might pay? Is this simply a game for a rich, young boy to play? The colors of the world are changing, day by day."

Courfeyrac looked to Arlette. "I don't think they know what they've gotten themselves into."

"Do any of us?"

"Red!" Enjolras shouted. "The blood of angry men. Black! The dark of ages past. Red! A world about to dawn. Black! The night that ends at last."

"Had you seen her today, you might know how it feels," Marius spat, standing up and getting in Enjolras's face. "To be struck to the bone in a moment of breathless delight."

"Now, Marius…" Arlette tried, stepping forward, only to be caught by Courfeyrac.

"Had you been there today you might also have known how the world may be changed with just one burst of light!" Enjolras rolled his eyes before glancing to Arlette. Courfeyrac noticed and smirked to Jehan and Bahorel. "And what was wrong seems right; and what was right seems wrong."

"Red!" Grantaire shouted, mocking Enjolras.

"I feel my soul on fire," Marius answered.

"Black!"

"My world if she's not there."

"Red!"

"The color of desire."

"Black!"

"The color of despair!"

"Now, now," Arlette attempted. "Why don't we all just sit down?"

Enjolras gritted his teeth, not one to back down from such a blatant challenge. "Marius, you're no longer a child! I do not doubt you mean it well, but now there is a higher cause."

"Enjolras, please!" Arlette tried to reason with them.

"Who cares about your lonely soul? We strive towards a larger goal. Our little lives don't count at all."

Arlette said nothing, unable to believe what she was hearing.

"Red!" Enjolras began once again, this time joined by the rest of Les Amis. "The blood of angry men. Black! The dark of ages past. Red! The world about to dawn. Black! The night that ends at last!"

Courfeyrac yelled. "Listen, everybody!" He pointed to a very frantic looking Gavroche, a twelve-year-old street urchin that looked vaguely familiar to Arlette.

"General Lamarque is dead!" Gavroche announced.

The silence that ensued allowed Enjolras to compose himself. "Lamarque… his death is the hour of fate. The people's man…. His death is the sign we await!" His speech became quicker, more excited. "On his funeral date, they will honor his name with the light of rebellion ablaze in their eyes. On their candles of grief, we will kindle our flame. On the tomb of Lamarque shall our barricade rise! The time is near! Let us welcome it gladly with courage and cheer!"

"Let us take to the streets with no doubt in our hearts!" Courfeyrac added.

"With a jubilant shout!" Enjolras grinned at Arlette's excitement.

"They will come one and all!" he finished. "They will come when we call!"


	5. Chapter 5

Enjolras paced. He only paced when he became extremely frustrated, but Arlette could do nothing to quell the turmoil within him. She sat at table across the room, talking with Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Bahorel, watching the blond pace around the dozens of Amis that were gathered in the small back room of the Café Musain.

"I don't blame him," Courfeyrac stated, watching Enjolras's path with his eyes.

"Where _is_ he?" Bahorel questioned.

"With that girl 'Ponine found for him," Jehan cooed. "It's fantastic, isn't it?"

"What is? The fact that Marius abandoned his friends and his country for a girl?" Arlette glared at Jehan. "It's wretched, that's what it is." The boys shared a heavy glance and smirked at each other. "What now?"

"Would you like to know the true reason he's frustrated?" Courfeyrac whispered.

"What is there to know? Marius isn't coming. He promised he would help, yet there he goes, off with some girl."

Bahorel beamed. "Yes, but Marius falling in love made Enjolras think."

"Enjolras _always_ thinks. He doesn't need Marius's stupidity to help him."

"It made Enjolras think about _you_, Arlette," Jehan added softly.

"Me? Why me?" She shook her head. "No, unless my name is _Patria_ or _Républic_, he thinks naught about me."

"Oh, that's not true and you know it," Courfeyrac taunted. "He sees himself in what Marius is experiencing. The tie to someone he cares about conflicting with his love for his country."

Bahorel shrugged. "For Enjolras, though, his love for his country is stronger."

"But," Jehan began, smiling giddily. "I think it scares him. He doesn't know what he's feeling."

"And neither do you," Arlette pointed out. "I'm tired of you telling me how I feel. More importantly, I'm tired of you telling me how _he_ feels—or rather, doesn't feel. Please, no more of it." Simultaneously, all three boys shrugged.

Enjolras approached their table, making his way through the throngs of busy Amis. "We need to start. He isn't coming. Arlette, help me clean these muskets. Courfeyrac, see if you can help Joly fix up medical kits. Jehan, Bahorel, see who needs help and get busy."

Arlette stood dutifully. Courfeyrac winked at her and she rolled her eyes, following Enjolras back to where he had been pacing minutes before. They began to clean the weapons, shoving rags down into the barrels, polishing the firing mechanisms, making sure everything was in proper working condition. One of the men working on making bullets called Enjolras away, and she was left alone, cleaning muskets in the corner.

"My place is here!" Arlette heard a call from the door. She turned toward the voice. Marius stood, clearly distressed, holding up one of the red flags. "I fight with you!" The students cheered, and Arlette could see the slightest hint of a smile on Enjolras's face, even though it was clear he was trying to look agitated.

"Where were you?" Combeferre questioned the brown-haired near-traitor.

"Just… nowhere. I had to get my priorities straight, that's all." Marius was a terrible liar, although Arlette could sense a hint of the truth in his words. "I came to tell you I was with you. No matter whether you fight for a republic or an emperor." Arlette could almost see Enjolras rolling his eyes; he hated that Marius was such a devoted Bonapartist. "What can I help with?" He was pointed in the direction of Arlette and her musket cleaning.

Marius sat across the table from her and picked up a weapon. "Cleaning these alone, are you?"

She nodded. "Enjolras was helping, but then he got called away." She moved a cleaned musket away from herself and grabbed another. "Did you find her?"

"Who?" Marius looked away.

"That girl. The one you met the other day. Did Eponine find her?"

Marius was silent for a long moment. "Yes. She did."

"Was she just as lovely as you imagined?"

"More." His grin was short-lived. "But she is gone now."

"Gone?" Arlette found it hard to believe the girl disappeared. "How could she just be gone?"

He shrugged. "I'm not sure. One second we were talking through the fence, then her father came outside and called her away, so I hid in the bushes. When I came back, no one was in the house. They left."

Genuinely, Arlette felt sorry for the poor Pontmercy.

* * *

June 5, 1832. General Lamarque's funeral day. All of Les Amis were in attendance, watching over things, just in case an opportunity arose for their revolution. The center of Paris, around the giant elephant statue, was packed with people. Rich, poor, man, woman, people from all social classes and situations came to celebrate the life of the people's man. Members of Les Amis lined both sides of the widened street. The sound of hooves and carriages in the distance gauged how close the procession was.

Arlette stood to Enjolras's right. To his left, Jehan was bouncing on his heels in anticipation. She could look across the street to Marius and Joly. Courfeyrac and Bahorel were somewhere in the crowd to their left, and the rest of Les Amis were spread throughout the spectators of the cavalcade.

Enjolras leaned down to whisper in Arlette's ear. "Look at them all. It's going to happen, I can feel it."

"Are you sure?"

Enjolras looked excited. "Positive."

The cavalcade was closer. Arlette watched as a group of drummers marched past, beating out a slow marching beat. After the drummers, four rows of National Guards marched past, their buttons and swords glinting in the afternoon sunlight. The cavalry came next, followed by the carriage of Lamarque's family, then, finally, Lamarque's casket.

Someone shouted, "Vive Lamarque!" and Enjolras tensed, studying the crowd for signs of insurgency. The rest of the crowd took up the chant until one brave soul called above the rest: "Vive la France!"

Sensing the growing turmoil within the crowd of spectators, the guards put a hand on their guns. Enjolras rushed forward, grabbing one of the red flags from a female member of Les Amis. He stood between the two carriages—one carrying Lamarque's family, the other, his casket—and waved it. Marius followed suit, and climbed atop the larger carriage. The rest of Les Amis surged into the street, some carrying le tricolore, others flags of solid red, followed by most of the crowd. Arlette caught up with Enjolras, who threw two flags up to Marius before climbing the carriage himself. He pulled Arlette up, and she watched as he climbed to the top with Marius. She stood on the lower ledge, watching the crowd below.

Joly and Combeferre ran up to the carriage and tossed Arlette a tricolore before joining her on the ledge.

"Some funeral!" Joly yelled over the din of the crowd, smiling widely.

The carriage continued to rumble along the street as Courfeyrac joined them. "This is better than I expected!"

"Don't let Enjolras hear you!" Arlette joked.

The carriage was now covered in Les Amis, all of whom were waving flags. Shouts of "Vive la France" echoed throughout the crowd still lining the streets as more and more people ran forward to join the procession.

Suddenly, the carriage jolted to a stop. Arlette heard hooves. She climbed upwards and Courfeyrac jumped down from the carriage just as a National Guard yelled: "Halt!" Marius and Enjolras both pulled out handguns and cocked them menacingly, aiming for the opposing National Guardsmen. The guard who had ordered the halt, seemingly the leader, yelled out again. "Draw!" In unison, the cavalry drew their swords.

Out of the corner of her eye, Arlette saw men moving into position on all sides of the procession with their weapons trained on the carriage. "Enjolras," she breathed. "Muskets at three and nine o'clock." He gave a slight nod, but kept his weapon trained on the lead guardsman.

A shot rang out, followed by a scream. Arlette watched Jehan go running toward a group of panicked citizens. After a second, he screamed at the guards. "She's an innocent woman! Murderer!"

After that, all hell broke loose. The cavalry charged. More shots were fired. Arlette barely registered Enjolras leading her off the carriage and onto the street below. He shoved a gun into her hands roughly. "To the barricades!" he shouted, grabbing her by the hand and beginning to run.

They ran together, dodging overturned carts and furniture that was thrown into the streets by those who supported the rebellion. Marius thundered past them on a horse, red flag in tow, directing everyone to the barricades. Many were running. Some hid behind corners of buildings and carts, shooting at the police and guards chasing the crowd. Shouts of "Get down!" and "Hurry up!" echoed throughout the streets.

Arlette was focused on running. She was trailing slightly behind Enjolras, but she was fast enough that she could keep up. She was thankful she had listened to Courfeyrac that morning and worn his clothes; a dress would have just gotten in her way. The two ducked through alleys and streets in an attempt to get back to the Café Musain quickly.

Finally, the café came into view. Marius jumped off his horse and ran inside, calling to Grantaire. "Get off your ass! It's begun!" Suddenly, the brown-haired Pontmercy was in the window above the café throwing down muskets and furniture. Enjolras glanced up, in shock at Marius's enthusiasm. Marius, in turn, smiled wildly.

Furniture rained from the sky. Tables, chairs, bedframes, couches, pianos, anything people could lift and chuck out their window was hitting the cobbles around Arlette. She followed Combeferre, moving the now shambled furniture toward the mouth of the street, blocking the path of the guards.

"We need it as tall as possible without losing integrity!" Enjolras called to them, helping Courfeyrac carry a broken piano to the forming barricade.

Soon, everyone who was not defending the barricade was working on building it, toting broken furniture from the middle of the street to the main barricade, or working to construct the secondary barricade out of old carts and armoires to shield the revolutionaries from an attack via the alley.

When the barricades fully constructed, Enjolras stepped forward. He looked quite disheveled, with his tie loosened and shirt ripped at the collar, but even so, there was a flame about him that made him look regal. "I need a volunteer!" he called. "Someone who can found out their plan and when they will attack!" Arlette took a step forward, but one glare from Enjolras and she merely continued to Courfeyrac's side.

One man stepped forward. He wore a blue cap that fell over one eye, a blue collared shirt and a blue jacket. He wore one of the red, white, and blue cockades that had become the symbol of Les Amis, but she did not recognize him from any of Enjolras's speeches, though she knew she had seen him somewhere. "I can find out the truth. I know their ways. I fought their wars, served my time in the days of my youth."

"See?" Jehan patted the stranger on the back. "The people unite."

"I pray you're right," Grantaire admitted, sipping a bottle.

Bahorel handed the man a gun and he left, exiting from the barricade through an opening built into the side.

As soon as he was out of sight, Marius approached the barricade, carrying a red flag. Enjolras took the stairs to the top two at a time and reached for the drapeau, jamming the pole between a chair and an armoire on the front of the barricade. "Red!" he called down to Les Amis. "The blood of angry men."

"Black!" they answered. "The dark of ages past. Red! A world about to dawn. Black! The night that ends at last."

The man did not return until after the sun was long set. "Listen, my friends," he began. "I have done as I said. I have been to their lines, I have counted each man. I will tell what I can. Better be warned, they have armies to spare, and the danger is real. We will need all our cunning to bring them to heel."

Enjolras nodded pensively. "Have faith! If you know what their movements are, we will spoil their game. There are ways that a people can fight. We shall overcome their power!"

"I have overheard their plans, there will be no attack tonight. They intend to starve us out before they start a proper fight. They want to concentrate their force, hit us in the light."

"Liar!" Gavroche yelled, hopping down from his perch on the barricade. "Good evening, inspector, lovely evening right here. I know this man, my friends, his name's Inspector Javert! So don't believe a word he says, 'cause none of it's true!"

Combeferre and Joly moved to grab Javert, he resisted for a moment, but finally, they managed to get him by the arms.

"Bravo, little Gavroche, you're the top of the class," Combeferre commended.

"So, what are we going to do with this snake in the grass?" Bahorel questioned, his weapon trained on Javert.

"Take this man and throw him in the tavern, in there," Enjolras waved toward the café. "The people will decide your fate, Inspector Javert."

"Shoot me now, or shoot me later," Javert spat. "Every schoolboy to his sport. Death to each and every traitor! I renounce your people's court!"

Javert was led into the tavern, followed by a group of Les Amis. He began to fight, throwing off Combeferre and Joly easily, and running to the corner, grabbing a nightstick. The inspector fought off Les Amis, hitting Enjolras in the jaw before being tackled by Bahorel and Jehan. Enjolras managed to wrestle his club out of Javert's grip and hit him with it, knocking the inspector unconscious.

Outside, the sound of footsteps recalled Les Amis to the barricade. "To your positions!" Marius called softly. Everyone grabbed a musket, preparing for the fight that was guaranteed to come. Above, Arlette heard shutters slamming closed and windows locking. The people in this quarter had abandoned them.

Enjolras began to climb the stairs to the top of the barricade, followed closely by Arlette. He put his arm out, stopping her. "No. You stay down here. Help Jehan, help Joly. I don't want you on the front." She opened her mouth. "No arguments. Not this time."

Arlette fell back, crossing to Jehan, who was guarding the opening. He squeezed her shoulder and handed her a musket. "You ready?" he whispered. She didn't speak, but nodded slowly.

She watched as Marius and Enjolras crouched behind the top of the barricade, struggling to aim properly and still stay under cover. "Hold your fire," Marius instructed to the men on the barricade.

From the other end of the street, one voice pierced the air. "Front rank, kneel!" Arlette heard the sound of a dozen knees hitting the cobblestones at the same time. "Take aim." At least two dozen guns were cocked and pointed at the barricade. "Who's there?"

Enjolras glanced over his shoulder as if looking for something before answering. Arlette could hear the slight quiver of nervousness in his voice. "French revolution!"

"Fire!" The street was lit up as dozens of muskets fired at once. The thud of bullets hitting the barricade was gut-wrenching. A few men on the top of the barricade fell, only to get back up, clutching a bloody gash in their arm or on their face. Joly sprang up and ran to the injured, attempting to quickly patch their wounds.

The barricade fired back. A fireman's line of weapons was created to and from the barricade. Fresh weapons were passed up to those perched on the top, used weapons were sent down to be loaded. Suddenly, there were guards on the barricade, firing into the throng of students below. Some were shot down, but a few remained, picking off the revolutionaries. Arlette and Jehan took turns peeking around the barricade and shooting at the guards still attempting to climb the five-foot wooden structure. As she loaded her musket, Arlette watched in horror as Enjolras wrestled with one of the guards at the top of the barricade. Suddenly, the guard slumped over and Marius dropped a weapon to the ground before jumping down as well. Jehan reappeared and Arlette moved to fire once more.

When she was back behind the barricade, Jehan hadn't loaded his musket. Everything was silent. Everyone was staring at the barricade. Fearing the worst, Arlette turned. Marius was standing at the summit of the wooden mountain, holding a keg of powder in one hand and a torch in the other. "Fall back or I blow the barricade!" he yelled to the officer facing him.

"Blow it up and take yourself with it!"

"Christ…" Combeferre mumbled.

"And myself with it," Marius agreed, slowly moving the torch toward the keg.

"Back!" the guard ordered. "Fall back!"

As soon as it was clear, Enjolras grabbed the torch from Marius's hand. Marius descended from the barricade as if in a daze.

"Marius, what were you thinking? You could have gotten us all killed!" someone yelled.

"Marius, you saved us all," Courfeyrac commended. Gently, it began to rain. "Oh, no! The rain's going to ruin the powder."

Enjolras looked to Jehan and Arlette expectantly and they moved to join him under the eaves of the café. When Arlette was close enough, he inspected her. "Are you okay?"

She smiled. "I'm fine, Enjolras. Honest." The blue-eyed Apollo nodded to Jehan, who smiled.

Marius was the only one not inside the café. He was sitting by the barricade, talking to someone. "Who is that?" Jehan whispered.

Enjolras sighed. "Eponine, I believe."

"Is she hurt?"

"It seems so."

Even though they were under cover from the rain, when it began to come down harder, Enjolras, Jehan, and Arlette were soaked. After a few minutes, the rain stopped, and Enjolras turned to Bahorel and Combeferre. They nodded and approached Marius, picking up Eponine and carrying her away.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

"We need to get inside," Arlette confided to Courfeyrac. "This rain is going to end up ruining all the powder, and then what will we do?"

He shook his head. "We can't get in if they don't open their doors." They both glanced up to one of the closed windows.

Suddenly, someone was pounding on the door of the building just across from Arlette and Courfeyrac. Apparently, this man, who they had come to know as Le Cabuc, had the same idea. The door did not open, and Le Cabuc rapped again. Still no answer. A third knock. The silence remained. Cabuc called out to the owners of the home, but still, nothing stirred. Becoming frustrated, he seized a musket and beat on the door with the butt. The door was solid, and the gun's beating did nothing to damage it.

Finally, a little square window on the third story squeaked open. "Messieurs," questioned the groggy porter, his grey hair sticking out at all angles, candle in hand. "What do you wish?"

"Open!" cried Le Cabuc.

"I'm afraid I cannot."

"Open, I tell you!"

"Impossible, messieurs!"

Le Cabuc turned his musket around, aiming for the porter. "Yes, or no. Will you open?"

"No, messieurs!"

"No?"

"I say no, my good-" The porter could not finish. Le Cabuc had pulled the trigger. Above, the porter's candle fell and went out, the old man slumped down, his head the only thing visible through the window.

Le Cabuc let his musket drop to the pavement, satisfied.

No sooner had the clattering cease when a hand grasped Le Cabuc's shoulder with great pressure and weight.

"On your knees." The while, statuesque face of Enjolras glared at the murderer. In his other hand, Enjolras held a pistol. At the sound of musket fire, Enjolras had entered the street from the café, where he had been studying the map of Paris Arlette had given to him so long ago. In his left hand, he grasped Le Cabuc's collar, shirt, and suspenders. Coldly, he repeated: "On your knees."

Le Cabuc bent at the knees like a reed, and knelt in the mud. It had not been Le Cabuc's own prerogative to kneel, however. The leader of Les Amis, a slender young man of twenty-two in appearance, had forced him with a superhuman grasp. Arlette was across the street, but she could see the wrath in her friend's normally calm azure eyes.

The whole of the barricade surrounded the spectacle, eager to see Enjolras pass judgment on the murderer. All were silent, unable to mutter a word. Le Cabuc trembled, from terror or from cold it was unclear. Enjolras let go of the man and took his watch from his crimson coat.

"I give you one minute. Collect your thoughts. You may pray or think."

The murderer's eyes went wide before his head dropped to his chest as he muttered some sort of prayer. For an entire minute, Enjolras's wrathful eyes did not leave the face of the watch. He allowed the minute to pass and returned his watch back to his fob. With his now free hand, Enjolras grasped Le Cabuc once again and put the muzzle of the pistol to his temple. Most of the barricade turned their heads away, Arlette and Courfeyrac included.

There was an explosion and the dull thud of the murderer hitting the cobblestones.

Enjolras straightened, looking around, his eyes full of severity and determination. With his foot, he moved the body away from him and called to Bahorel. "Throw that outside."

Silently, Bahorel obeyed, lifting the still quivering body. He walked to the smaller barricade that protected against the alley and tossed it over.

While this was happening, Enjorlas remained pensive, studying the face of each of the revolutionaries. He turned to Courfeyrac and Arlette last. Shadow had crept onto his face. Suddenly, he spoke, eyes locked on the part of wall between Arlette and Courfeyrac's heads. "What that man did is horrible," he began. "And what I have done is terrible. He killed; I killed him. I was forced to do it—insurrection must have discipline. Assassination is a greater crime here than elsewhere. I judged and condemned that man to death. As for myself, compelled to do what I have done, but hating it, I have judged myself also. You shall soon see my sentence."

"We will share your fate!" Combeferre called.

"So be it," Enjolras mumbled softly. He remained standing on the spot where he had spilled the blood of the murderer for some time, even after the crowd had dispersed.

* * *

Face-to-face with the barrels of six muskets, the man's eyes widened. "Don't shoot!" he exclaimed softly, taking off his guard chapeau to reveal curly, salt-and-pepper hair. He was dressed in the uniform of the National Guard. "I come here as a volunteer!"

Enjolras nodded to Jehan and Arlette, who moved the armoire that had been placed as a door into the barricade, covering the opening. The man entered graciously. The minute the armoire was pushed shut behind him, the handguns of Enjolras, Jehan, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly, and Bahorel were aimed at the newcomer.

"You see that prisoner over there?" Joly questioned, nodding toward the café. "A volunteer like you; a spy who calls himself Javert. He's going to get it, too."

"Don't kill him! I know him!" Gavroche exclaimed, much to the surprise of the six guards and the stranger.

The stranger sighed, looking up to the heavens. His eyes widened suddenly. "Enemy marksman!" he shouted.

"On the roof! There! On the roof!" Combeferre warned, pointing.

The stranger turned, grabbing the gun from Joly, and shot toward the rooftops. Other shots were fired, from whom, it was hard to say, but three guardsmen fell from the roof of the surrounding buildings.

After Courfeyrac called that it was clear, Enjolras turned to the stranger. "Thank you, Monsieur."

"Give me no thanks, Monsieur," the older man replied. "There's something you can do."

"If it is in my power," the blond conceded.

"Give me the spy, Javert. Let me take care of him."

"Do what you have to; the man belongs to you." Enjolras handed him a gun and a knife and the stranger entered the café. Javert was cut from his binds and both men disappeared out the back door into the alley.

"Do you really trust him?" Arlette questioned the sapphire-eyed Apollo.

"He saved us. We have no choice." Enjolras sighed. "If he kills the spy or not…" The rest of Enjolras's sentence was cut off by a gunshot. "He's out of our way." The members of Les Amis began to busy themselves with getting comfortable resting positions on the barricade. "Courfeyrac, take the watch," Enjolras instructed, watching as everyone settled down for the night. "They may attack before it's light. Everybody keep the faith, for certain as our banner flies, the people too must rise." He glanced to his right, where Marius had been fortifying the barricade for a half an hour. "Marius, rest."

When he saw that Marius had sat down, Enjolras joined Arlette, who was sitting on the ground, leaning against the outer wall of the Café Musain. "How are you?" he questioned, his sapphire orbs searching her own emerald ones.

She shook her head. "I don't know."

He smiled slightly. "How do you not know?"

"I'm not sure how I feel about all this. I hope this republic you dream of is worth it, Enjolras." She looked away. "Because we all may die here."

For a while, the only sound was Jehan humming softly to himself as he prepared a pillow out of splintered wood and a battered flag. "If I must die for my country, then so be it, that is my decision. You, however… I would feel wrong if I knew that you died here as well."

"Me?" Arlette questioned incredulously. "I have no family. There are men here fighting with you who have wives, daughters." She paused, unsure of whether to truly speak her mind. "Enjolras, you go on and on about the people, but what about the people who will lose their loved ones tonight? You have a family that loves you back in Poitiers."

"And you have people who care about you here in Paris!" Enjolras protested softly. "Jehan would be devastated if you should fall here."

"Jehan has a family of his own! At least… allow those that wish to leave to leave in good conscience."

He nodded. "In the morning, I shall speak to them. In the meantime, would you care to go for a stroll?"

"What?"

"I should like to see if there are any other surviving barricades. There should have been at least three built in the north, east, and west. Perhaps they could use our help."

"Or perhaps they could help us."

Instead of answering her, Enjolras stood and offered his hand to help her up. "I'm going to talk to Courfeyrac. Be ready in five minutes."

Arlette nodded and entered the café, which the students had begun to use as an armory. "Bahorel!" she called. The brown-haired man was at her side in a second. "I need two handguns."

He raised an eyebrow, but did not voice the question he was thinking. "I assume you want them loaded."

"Preferably."

"Two, you said?" She nodded. "Very well." He led her to a table of small revolvers and pistols being cleaned by some of the older members of the revolution. Bahorel picked up two of the smaller weapons and handed them to her. "Easy to conceal, easy to reload. You'll need some powder and a few bullets, too." He grabbed two pouches. "Here. Everything you'll need."

"Thank you, Bahorel." Arlette smiled warmly and exited the café, finding Enjolras with Courfeyrac.

"Ah. Are you ready?" She said nothing, handing him a pistol and a pouch of powder and bullets. "Are these necessary?"

"They may be," Courfeyrac interjected. "One can never be too cautious. You don't know what you're going to find out there, Enjolras."

Three hours later, Enjolras and Arlette stood beside the remnants of a barely functional barricade on the west end of Paris. The cobblestones were wet with the recent rain and blood. The barricade itself had been half torn apart—by its users or by the guard, it was unclear. The alley was devoid of any and all life. As horrific as the image seemed, it was not the first time the two had seen the image that night.

The barricade to the east was completely destroyed by cannon fodder. Wooden splinters covered the street where the barricade had been. Blood not only spattered the streets, but the walls of surrounding buildings.

The guards hadn't even bothered to clean up the barricade to the north. Bodies were strewn around the street, staining the cobbles with their crimson life force. The barricade hadn't even been constructed; the men had defended themselves by overturning cabriolets and carts.

At each site, Enjolras took the time to check each body for a sign of life. He took the time to close their eyes and straighten their clothes. "They fought bravely," he would say each time they left, wiping his bloodied hands on his already crimson jacket. He would remain silent until they arrived at the next barricade, and he would repeat the process, going from body to body, checking for pulses, listening for breathing, closing eyelids, and wiping his hands.

At each site, Arlette was reminded of why everyone respected Enjolras. Of why he had become the automatic choice in leadership of Les Amis de l'ABC. Yes, he was a straight shooter, and a fantastic orator. Yes, he believed in the cause wholeheartedly and was consumed by the idea of the republic. But, Enjolras cared about those who fought for him. He earned their respect by respecting his fellow revolutionaries from the beginning. He was genuinely concerned for the wellbeing of all of France, not just the poor. He was selfless. He was kind. He was willing to die for what he believed, but he was not willing to let his friends die instead of him.

The entire walk back was silent; Enjolras said nothing to her, and Arlette had no idea how to even begin a conversation. Enjolras whistled when they arrived back to the barricade, and, instead of waiting for someone to move the armoire, he helped Arlette to climb the barricade and hop over the peak, landing lightly on the other side.

Marius was the first to approach them. Arlette had no idea how it had happened, but just as Enjolras had become a leader by desire and enthusiasm, Marius had become a leader by opportunity and disparity. "Enjolras, the rain has damaged the gunpowder. We're low on ammunition."

Enjolras sighed. "We're the only barricade left," he stated softly, wasting no time.

"What?"

"We're the only ones left." It was silent for a long moment as everyone processed what the blond Apollo had just revealed. "The people have not stirred. We are abandoned by those who still live in fear." He glanced to Arlette. "Let us not waste lives. Let all who wish to, go from here. You will not be judged. He who has a mother, yet no father, should leave. He who has a wife and daughter should leave. He who has just been betrothed should leave. He who is the only provider for a young child should leave." Enjolras stared at Arlette. "She whose only family is here should leave."

"What?" Arlette protested. "No!"

"We wish to fight!" someone yelled.

After much bickering and arguing, it was decided that five men were to leave the barricade. Each had mothers, wives, and children at home waiting for them. The only problem: now that it was light, it would be harder to avoid being seen by the National Guard.

"Bousset! Fetch the uniforms from the guards behind the café," Enjolras instructed.

"But, we only have four." Arlette pointed out.

"One of you will have to stay behind."

"No." The stranger stepped forward. "You may use mine. That makes five."

Each of the five men were supplied with a uniform and left the barricade via the smaller barricade facing the alley.

"Arlette, may I speak with you in the café?" Enjolras questioned, pulling her inside before she even had a chance to answer him. He led her back the secret hall to the back room. It still had the map of Paris hanging on the wall. It was hard to believe they were there just three days prior, laughing and joking as if they had the rest of their lives ahead of them. "I want you to leave."

"No, Enjolras," she said firmly.

"Arlette, everyone is going to die here, you know that, right?"

"So be it, then." Arlette sighed. "Enjolras, Girard is gone. If my friends are gone too, then what do I have? Nothing."

"Please, Arlette."

"No, Enjolras! Why are you so persistent?"

"I'm merely trying to fulfill a promise I made."

"What promise? To who?"

Enjolras shut his eyes and clenched his jaw tightly. "I promised Girard I wouldn't let you get hurt. I'm not about to back down from that now."

"But Enjolras, you're not letting me get hurt. I would be hurt more if I were alone."

"At least you would be alive!" he argued, practically shouting.

"For what? To wander around in this city all alone? Why in the world would I want-"

A series of shots made Arlette jump.

"Oh, no." Enjolras began to run through the café, Arlette on his heels.

"Gavroche!" Courfeyrac screamed, attempting to climb over the barricade.

Another shot.

"Gavroche, no!"

Quickly, Jehan and Combeferre pushed the armoire out of the way and Courfeyrac darted out, guarded by Marius, musket in hand.

When Courfeyrac returned, he carried a tiny lifeless form in his arms. "Gavroche…" he whispered. "Why?"


End file.
